


Architect Under the Crown

by IridulcentDays (BiverbalBuncombe)



Series: Spies Like Us [1]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Spies & Secret Agents, Dubious Consent, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Honeypot, M/M, Undercover Missions, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-14
Updated: 2016-07-14
Packaged: 2018-07-24 01:59:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7488933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BiverbalBuncombe/pseuds/IridulcentDays
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I know that,” Ivan says softly, and there is an undercurrent of venom that makes Alfred tense. “But why–“ Ivan pauses and finally turns to Alfred, “Do we need to pretend–”</p><p>“That we’re lovers?” Alfred cuts off.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Architect Under the Crown

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt fill from Tumblr, using this as the first line: "Explain it to me again - why do we need to pretend to be married?”
> 
> Dubious consent added, although no sex in this piece, because I think Honeypot traps are inherently a bit dubious consent in their nature.

“Explain it to me again - why do we need to pretend to be married?”

Alfred is plucking lint away from his cuffs as he stands in the pool of red light from the neon liquor store sign above him and looks up at the irritable tone. Ivan is looking away across the street to the club they are supposed to enter in a few minutes. He refuses to meet Alfred’s eyes and has a faint scowl that betrays how unenthusiastic he’s going to be about this mission. 

“You heard what Arthur said,” Alfred says with a shrug and lets his hands fall down loosely to his sides before he leans back against the brick exterior of the shuttered shop, falling into bruising shadow. “Jim Peterson. 52. American expat and international antiquities dealer who happens to be funding this nice little neo-Nazi terrorist group and has a key to a vault with some weapon designs we’d really like back.”

“I know that,” Ivan says softly, and there is an undercurrent of venom that makes Alfred tense. “But why–“ Ivan pauses and finally turns to Alfred, “Do we need to pretend–”

“That we’re lovers?” Alfred cuts off and stows his hands in the pockets of his slacks. It’s hot out tonight, even with the sun down. He can feel sweat beading up on his brow. 

Ivan gives a tense nod and Alfred sighs, “Because Peterson is a son of a bitch who likes to break up happy couples.”

“We cannot break into the vault ourselves?”

“Last person to try ended up sent back in three different shipments. Turns out Peterson’s pretty good with security.”

“And why can we not knock him out and take this key?”

“Because not everything can be Rock ‘em Sock ‘em, you know,” Alfred claps the Russian agent on the shoulder and snorts at the caustic glare he receives in response. 

“You are the one who runs in without a plan every time,” Ivan counters. He looks flushed in the red light and Alfred eyes him as he loosens his jacket. He feels like he’s going to drown in the humidity and the city smells of a strange combination of sweat, piss, and sweet salt air.

“True,” Alfred agrees easily. 

“And you punch others out before asking questions.”

“Sure.”

“And now it is time we go with the carefully laid out plan?” Ivan asks, violet eyes focused on the American to his right.

“Yep. Unless you want to let Elizabeta know why we couldn’t finish the mission.”

Ivan glowers at the dark street, looking at the bright sign of the club. _L’Oiseau_ sits prominently, and purple light ripples down the damp shingles of the roof and onto people below. Alfred palms his hair down, unruly from the humidity. “Oh, don’t tell me you’re worried about seducing Peterson? I realize you may be out of touch–”

“I am not out of touch.” Ivan responds stiffly. “I just do not wish to be doing this with you.”

Alfred ignores the little stutter of pain that flares between his ribs because he is absolutely not upset that Ivan is so against this mission over the fact that this is with Alfred. Because it doesn’t bother him. At all. 

“Yeah, well the feeling’s mutual, Braginski. Now, ring on? Good, let’s go, _darling_.”

Ivan looks like he’s going to hit Alfred, but instead his face relaxes and he takes a step closer. They walk out of the shadows and cross the street, easily sauntering into the club, as arranged. It’s a bit of a mix of old fashion and new. There’s a wide dance floor with swooping and flashing lights, sending the throng of people into camera stills of ardor and ecstasy. They move past this easily, and climb the stairs to the second floor where they know their mark will be. It’s quieter up here, with the drone of music below only a vague thudding that’s more akin to a heartbeat. It’s darker too, and filled with cigarette and cigar smoke that Alfred is 100% sure is not up to code. There’s a stage with an orchestra like it’s 1955 and the band is playing loud. 

“I didn’t think it’d be old music,” Alfred mutters as they take their small café like table near the stage and in sight of the VIP booth that is currently empty. 

“You have no taste,” Ivan says blandly, eyes gauging and calculating for danger the room could offer. 

“Yeah, well it’s still shitty.” He’d rather be downstairs.

Alfred orders them a bottle of wine. He doesn’t take the house red; one too many cases of getting drugged when he couldn’t see the bottle. When the wine is poured and Alfred declares the bottle fantastic, Ivan takes Alfred’s hand. Alfred stills and looks up curiously. 

“Peterson,” Ivan says, bringing Alfred’s wrist up in a kiss to hide his words.

Alfred smiles and turns to look at the stage. Peterson is in the booth. Finally. 

Now the game can begin. 

“Do you want to go for a dance, darling?” Alfred asks. He draws his hand away. The band is playing something from Ben E. King, or at least he thinks so. 

“No.” Ivan says and Alfred puffs his lips with an exasperated sigh. 

“It’d let us hear a bit better, don’t you think?”

“The band is loud enough tonight, I think.” Ivan replies dryly. 

Alfred is still smiling, because he doesn’t want Peterson to look over and see him frowning. Ivan’s hand is covering Alfred’s again, thumb lazily curling over the ridges of bone. 

Alfred tilts his head, and takes a long sip of the wine that burns his tongue and throat. “We’re supposed to be married,” Alfred reminds Ivan, he is looking away to the entrance. 

“I’m holding your hand,” Ivan counters with a hiss. His violet eyes are narrowed and Alfred feels a thrum of agitation vibrate though his bones. 

“Great, you can divorce me tomorrow. Happy couple, _Sergei_ ,” Alfred counters with Ivan’s cover name. 

“Of course, _Alan_.” Ivan counters. 

Alfred’s smile is tipping into a tundra like coldness and goads, “It’s alright if you’re a poor kisser. After all, no shame if you’ve had little practice. You really should just let me know if sex and seduction aren’t really your–”

Ivan’s lips are on Alfred’s before he can finish his complaint, moving hot and hard and Ivan’s hand is in his hair. Alfred leans in, pulling Ivan close by spreading his hands across his back and tugging him in, as though his own ribs will be able to partake in devouring. Ivan’s tongue flickers wetly, and he pulls back and stares down with darkened eyes. 

“A poor kisser?” Ivan echoes Alfred’s earlier comment.

“Fuck,” Alfred breathes, and pulls him back down, this time his own hand furrowing and tugging at Ivan’s hair. They’re back to kissing and Alfred wonders briefly when the last time a kiss has sent down a buzz through his bones. Alfred slides his hands down, towards Ivan’s lower back and feels him stiffen. “You’re supposed to use your hands too,” Alfred reminds him, hot breath ghosting along Ivan’s jaw. 

“I do not want to make a scene.”

“Sort of the point, darling.” 

Alfred leans forward, setting an impatient kiss against Ivan’s parted mouth. He tastes like the wine and the chamomile tea he is always drinking. Ivan’s hands are lower now, squeezing his upper thigh tightly and–

“Excuse me, gentlemen.”

Alfred looks up to the waiter in front of their table. Ivan is looking too, but the angle he is in sends his breath in waves of warm air across Alfred’s neck. 

“Yes?” Alfred asks. His voice is tight and he clears it with a cough. 

“A glass of champagne, sent from the gentleman from the booth over there.”

Alfred looks up and across the dance floor. Peterson is watching. 

“Ah, thank you.” Alfred only slightly detangles himself from Ivan’s grasp and takes the glasses of the proffered champagne. “Please send him our regards.”

The waiter walks away and Alfred hands the second glass to Ivan. He realizes he is halfway out of his chair now and in Ivan’s lap. Alfred pulls back, but hooks his leg around Ivan’s. He hopes the tablecloth is short enough so Peterson can see. 

“Should we go over?” Alfred asks. He toys with the idea of taking a sip. 

Ivan looks across the room and shakes his head. “No. Not yet. We want it to be a hunt for him. A challenge.” He takes a sip of the champagne and smiles. “No husband of mine would be ‘easy’’.”

“Yeah, well, I’ll need time if I’m going to seduce him.” Alfred isn’t looking at Peterson. Instead he finds himself transfixed on Ivan’s slightly swollen lips. 

“I’m sure you will think of something,” Ivan replies and the coldness is back to his voice again. An echo of when they were standing outside the club. Alfred stares at him and then back to the glass of champagne. “Nothing wrong with the drink, is there?”

“No.” Ivan mutters. He takes a long sip. 

“Good.” Alfred downs it quickly. He’s watching the dance floor, keeping his eye on Peterson. The man leans forward, beckoning someone standing in the shadow of the VIP booth. A man emerges and slowly stalks the room. Alfred turns to Ivan, grabbing his hand tightly. 

“Sergei, I’m so happy you’ve taken me out, but isn’t this going to be expensive?”

Ivan stares at Alfred for a moment in confusion, lets Alfred drag his fingers across Ivan’s cheek in a caress. “It is a special day,” Ivan says slowly, trying to pick up what Alfred is saying.

“It’s just, God, with your operation coming up…and the bills…” Alfred pauses and bites his lip, looking away and playing the part of the distressed spouse.

“It will be okay,” Ivan’s hands are against his jaw and they kiss again, but it’s more chaste and slow. 

“You know I’d do anything–”Alfred says

Ivan hushes him, “I know.” He is watching the man pass by their table with an imperceptible gaze. 

“Anything,” Alfred reiterates louder and rests his head on Ivan’s shoulder. A gentle hand rubs his shoulder. 

The man is far enough away and Alfred watches him finishing a circle of the room and returning to Peterson. 

“What,” Ivan mutters slowly. “Was that?”

“Ammunition.” Alfred says and stands up. He takes a long draught from the champagne and places the empty glass down with a loud clatter. They’re playing something now with heavy bass and trumpets. Alfred rolls his shoulders. “Time to dance.”

Ivan stands up and takes Alfred’s hand, pulling him to the dance floor. They stay close and Alfred can feel the alertness in Ivan’s muscles. “Alan,” Ivan whispers against his neck. Alfred turns his head, looking towards Peterson’s den. He isn’t there. 

Someone taps Ivan’s shoulder and they stop. Ivan is looking down at Peterson with a frown and Alfred smiles up.

“Do you mind if I cut in?” Peterson asks. He’s a tall man, though shorter than Ivan. He has pale hair that was once blonde, but fading to grey at the temples. The tightness of his shirt spoke of muscles and could have perhaps been said to be attractive if you could look past the insidious gaze that lurked behind bright blue eyes. 

“Yes,” Ivan said.

“Sergei,” Alfred laughs and pulls his hand away. Ivan’s bright eyes are focused on Alfred. “Don’t be silly. It’s just one dance.”

Peterson smiles and takes Alfred’s hand with a nod of thanks to Ivan. They’re dancing now and Ivan has skulked into the shadow of the stage, near but far enough away for Alfred to talk to Peterson. 

“I’m Jim,” Peterson says with a dazzling smile. 

“Alan,” Alfred replied with a smile more timid. He has a feeling that Peterson is the sort of person that likes to be in control and dominate others, especially hapless spouses that would do anything to help their lover. 

Alfred tries to look a little unsure of himself. He looks away and down to the ground until Peterson hums, “You look dashing tonight, a beautifully cut shirt.”

“Oh, thank you. My husband bought me this shirt. It’s our anniversary.”

“How wonderful,” Peterson says with too much teeth. He spins them and Alfred trips over his own feet, colliding into Peterson’s chest abruptly. He smells like stale coffee and shaving cream. Alfred attempts to push away, but Peterson holds close, his hands trailing down and they twirl into the midst of the other dancers, away from Ivan’s eyes. 

Peterson’s lips are against Alfred’s jaw and he murmurs, “You’re very attractive,” His hips are close now.

“I think I need to get back to Sergei,” Alfred says. He pulls away, but Peterson is quick. Alfred feels cold for a moment, and it has nothing to do with acting when his hand encircles Alfred’s wrist tightly. 

“I think I can help you, “ Peterson says. 

“Sorry?” Alfred replies. 

_Hook._

“I’m afraid I heard about your money problems. The operation? I’d like to help.”

 _Line._

“For a favor, of course.”

 _Sinker._

Alfred backtracks and pulls his hand away, wrist close to his chest. “I–”

“He doesn’t have to know. Just one night and everything will be okay,” Peterson whispers, and his breath is fogging Alfred’s thoughts. Alfred doesn’t say a word. He looks over at Ivan across the sea of dancers. 

“What do I tell Sergei?”

Peterson smiles. “Nothing.”

Alfred appears to deliberate for a minute, but he already knows what he is going to do. He is going to follow Peterson home. He is going to be his whore for the night. He will take that fucking key out of Peterson’s belongings, and he’ll be back at his partner’s side for morning coffee. They’ll laugh over this in about three weeks.

Easy as pie.

“I can’t just say nothing to him…meet me at the back entrance in twenty…I’ll…” Alfred swallows in revulsion and even he isn’t sure if it’s acting anymore. “I’ll see you then.”

“Wonderful.” Peterson says and steps back. He’s walking back to his booth and Ivan is on Alfred again, frown set back in place. 

“What did he say?”

“You didn’t hear?” Alfred asks. He’s wearing a bug. Ivan should have been able to hear. 

“Too many people, Alan.” Ivan says. There’s a tenseness there that bakes Alfred shudder. 

Ah. Peterson’s run interference, then. Alfred wonders if he knows who he is. He wonders if the risk is worth it. 

Of course it is. 

“Sergei, I’m, not feeling well. Do you think we can head home?” Wouldn’t that be nice. He wishes this night would end with walking the streets with Ivan rather than spreading his legs in the coming hours. Still, Peterson’s not horrible looking. Too bad he’s a neo-Nazi and a murderer. 

They’re walking out of the building now, and the hot summer night air is cooler than inside. Alfred looks languidly up at the sky. There aren’t any stars. 

“I do not like this.” Ivan mutters. “We should try something else. There should not have been interference with the device. What if he knows who you are?”

“This is our best chance.” It’s true. Peterson is always on the move. He’s not really sure he’s going to get such a perfect chance again. Besides, Alfred is no sheep walking to the slaughter. Alfred stays silent and waits until the cab pulls up to the curb. “Besides, this is the easy part.” He winks, and waits for Ivan to laugh with him. Ivan doesn’t. 

“You get five hours.” Ivan says. 

Alfred nods. After five hours without contact Ivan will be coming for Alfred. It makes his chest feel a little lighter. Alfred gently touches Ivan’s wrist. 

“Ah, I’ve left my wallet inside, I’ll meet you home Sergei. No, don’t worry.” Alfred says incase anyone is listening. They have to keep playing.

Ivan pulls down, tugging at Alfred’s lapels and their mouths meet. There’s a clack of teeth and Alfred wonders if he can ever breath again. Ivan’s tongue is tasting, demanding everything, and they part with a wet break.

“One for the road,” Ivan says and closes the cab door. 

Alfred stands, staring at his startled reflection against the cab door window. He looks lost in the shadows of night and the purple light above. The car pulls away. 

Alfred turns and walks. Time for work.


End file.
